Page 88 of First in Line

He nods again.

“If you give Jax a chance now, you can take him into your F4 team for the rest of the season. It’s based in Indianapolis, right?”

“It is.”

“You could have your people prepare him for a move into the F3 team the next season. That gives you almost six months of training and simulations before the preseason testing in February. Which means he’ll be ready by his first season in March. Then, you can either have him do another year, or if he’s proved himself, he could have two seasons of F2 before the real thing.”

“I like your passion, but that’s a lot of ‘ifs,’ young lady.”

“The ifs are only conditional on your end, sir. Jackson can—and will—fulfill his part of the deal if you let him.”

He hesitates, his finger tapping on the red cover of the binder.

“All we ask is that you give him one full year to prove himself to you,” Evie insists. “I promise he won’t disappoint.”

When he looks at me again, I know she’s almost won him over. “Are you sure you can do this, kid?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve wanted it my whole life. I’ve been training for it for ten years.”

“You look too young to be able to say that.”

I shrug. “I started early.”

Like the businessman he is, Mr. Pryce weighs the pros and cons for a moment. To him, this is an investment. A gamble. To us, it would be life-changing.

“Understand,” he carefully starts, “that if I take you in, it means I’ll be kicking out another driver. And while you might be the best in the F4 championship, you’re still in the kiddie pool. F3 is where the action really begins.”

“I get that, sir. But I know for a fact that I’ve never encountered a challenge I couldn’t rise to and conquer. If you take me into your F3 team, Iwillwin.”

The SUV stops, and when I look out the window, I see a black chopper waiting on the tarmac. Mr. Pryce doesn’t make a move to get out, which I take as a good sign.

“Do you know how much it costs to finance a Formula 3 season?” he asks.

“Around a million dollars,” Evie answers. “Two million for F2.”

“So, you’ve done your research. But it means you understand why I don’t easily give random drivers a chance.”

“You’re sinkingbillionsinto your dreams of owning a Formula One team. What’s another million dollars at this point?”

Again, he seems to appreciate her directness. But it’s still not quite enough. So I add, “You don’t know us, and you have no reason to trust what we say, Mr. Pryce. But if you believe in me and take me into your team, you’ll gain the lifetime loyalty of one of the best drivers in the world. And I’d say that’s worth a lot more than a million dollars.”

Something clicks in his expression, like the final barrier breaking, and he carefully says, “If I take you into my team, I will cover your seat, your testing program, and all travel expenses. Formula 3 only has ten race weekends per season, but if I take you in, you will follow a very strict, very demanding trainingschedule. All prize money and team earnings go through me first. I take my due, nothing more, and give the rest to the drivers. But from experience, even if you win every single race, it won’t be as much as you’re probably imagining. Sponsor money would be all yours, but again, you need to win for that.”

“Of course.”

“My F3 and F2 teams are based in Belgium, near Francorchamps. You would relocate there from March to September. Unless you can afford your own place, you will bunk with the others in the team housing. And I’m afraid that means little Miss Fender-Binder here isn’t allowed to come along. Would that be alright with you?”

Fuck, we didn’t think of that. We knew Europe would be the next step, but in my mind, I was never going to move there without her. I turn to her, seeking her gaze so we can try to sort it out.

But, still facing forward, she nods and says, “It’s fine. By the second year, the sponsors will pour in, and we’ll have our own place.”

Pryce laughs, shaking his head. “I like your style, young woman. I should hire you along with him to join my staff. Hell, you’d become the team principal within two months, wouldn’t you?”

“Hire him first, then we’ll see.”

A second passes. Then two. Three. Fifteen full seconds of silence, of him scanning us with intensity. And then he picks up the binder. “I imagine your contact information is in here?”

“Yes. Page two.”